Variations on the Word Love
by Celesteennui
Summary: Elissa Cousland: Warden, Hero, Commander, and Queen as seen through the eyes of those whose lives she has touched. Part of "The Chant of Dragons" universe.
1. Morrigan: Curiosity

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age, please don't sue me.

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><p>The first time that Morrigan spies Elissa, she is in the skin of a fox hiding beneath a bramble thatch slickened with entrails. Of Darkspawn, wilder, or soldier, she does not know, nor does it concern her. All that Morrigan cares for is the small band that is carving a decent path through the Wilds and its tainted interlopers. In particular, she finds herself fascinated with the one confidently taking point as they roam, the only woman in the number.<p>

At first, she can only tell that it's a woman by the scent that her fox-nose picks up. Dressed in plate with protective helmet, this warrior woman moves like a man. Well, mostly. A _capable man_ would be a more apt description, rare as they are. She is careful, confident without the swagger and bravado men must use lest their fellows doubt the equipment packed into their smallclothes.

This woman is not here for a pissing contest as her fellows are, or well, two of them at least. She leans against a tree while the thief bickers with the knight and their leader—_if _the man-child chaperoning them can even be called such—pacifies them. When she finally deigns to speak there is purpose in her voice, command. Hefting the unwieldy looking two-handed sword she uses with practiced ease, the warrior woman turns from her surprised companions and takes point again. Her companions stare at her back for a few moments, slack-jawed little boys that they are, before they scurry to keep up.

Loathe as she is to admit it, Morrigan is quite impressed with this one, and she finds herself suddenly willing to greet them in the ruins as Mother directed. It is a willingness that is rewarded with disdain, mistrust, and anger. From the men.

When Morrigan addresses her, the other woman respectfully removes her helmet. The object of her curiosity, Morrigan finds, is pale, much like herself, and also like herself, the warrior has hair is as dark as the Wilds beneath the moon. Albeit it is much shorter and matted with sweat. Her features are mostly unremarkable; she is no great beauty but Morrigan would certainly not call her unattractive if other women held her sexual attentions. There _is_ something special about the warrior's eyes, though. They're clear, bright, and steady; Morrigan can't recall ever seeing a shade of blue so vivid anywhere but the sky.

But the look of this woman means very little. It is her manner that intrigues Morrigan, or rather, _continues_ to intrigue Morrigan, for while her sniveling cadre of boys warn and whimper, the warrior makes up her own mind. A smile graces the other woman's lips, it is polite but also genuine—as adept as Morrigan is at the game of lies, she _knows_ the difference between vapid courtesy and what is sent in truth.

"I am Elissa. A pleasure to meet you."

Morrigan is no seer and yet she knows that her life has just started to change.


	2. Oghren: Anger

Bioware owns, I do not.

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><p>"You musta been pretty mad at somethin', Girly."<p>

It probably isn't too advisable for Oghren to be addressing his leader as "Girly" but as far as humans go, Lis is informal enough. It's probably what makes it so easy for him to follow her. That and the fact that he has absolutely nothing to go back to in sodding Orzammar but that's beside the point. She _could_ make it difficult. She _could_ have turned him away. Lis (and he's the only one to call her by that or any sort of nickname, he's noticed) keeps him, though, for whatever reason, and even makes him feel useful. One of the reasons he just couldn't turn her away when she requested he train her as a Berserker.

That and, well, he likes the kid, hard as he's tried not to.

It's the main reason that his guts clench—and not from the questionable slop Alistair served up, thanks—when her face shifts.

A subtle thing, to someone who hasn't slogged through mud and darkspawn entrails with her for weeks it would go unnoticed. Mostly because it stays in her eyes. The unnatural blue, those paragon-polished sapphires, lose their light and it's replaced by…_Nothing_.

The vacancy chills him to the bone both because he gives a pickled nug's rump about the chit and because he's seen that emptiness in the mirror before. Ancestors, he still does, when he sobers up enough and is stupid enough to find his reflection before downing a barrel of mead.

Oghren knows what Lis' lost, has heard the whispers, and was told more than he wanted during a cursedly long night's watch by that old chatterbox from the Circle.

That's what really makes him like this big whelp of girl: everyone in their merry little group has lost something on the road but Elissa and Oghren? They're the last of their lines, unlucky survivors of whatever sodding all-powerful arse tugs at the strings of fate. They are ghosts who live and watch the rest of the world with envy, hoping that one day maybe, just maybe, they'll find a door back in.

Or be lucky enough to die before even the numbness offered from drink (him) the good cause of this Blight (her) isn't enough to fend the void off.

Until then, there's the rage and heft of a good, head-cleaving swing.

The void is hidden in a breath and Lis smiles down at him, offering him the water-skin she carries on her belt. She lies to herself so well, Oghren can't not be proud of her. Or jealous, for that matter.

"'Course I'm angry," she says as he takes the flask. "I got myself knocked over twelve times by someone who shouldn't be even be able to keep upright, all the ale you've put in you today. My tail and my pride are positively bruised, Oghren."

He grunts as he swills down half the skin. It's not a real drink but he's not picky when he's thirsty. "Well, you best get out the salve, then, Girly." Oghren tosses the skin back to her, secretly delighting as she catches it with a single hand in one smooth motion; she knows him so well. "'Cause we ain't done yet."

There is a comfort, Oghren decides, as he sends Elissa flying arse-over-applecart a thirteenth time, in sharing a hankering for the grave with someone, unspoken as it may be. Comfort enough that there's the distinct possibility that said hankering will get duller by the day.


	3. Duncan: FireForfeit

Disclaimer: Owned by Bioware, not me.

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><p>Two days after the massacre of Highever Duncan finds Elissa bent over their campfire burning her hair.<p>

It isn't that she's gone mad, at least not to the point where she's burying her face in the coals. But there is something…_disturbing_ about the scene. How nonchalantly she takes hold of thick, ebony hank and brings the silver-handled knife—he thought he'd seen it at dinner on Lady Oriana's waist—to it. Hesitation rattles her hand only a second before the deed is done and the hank fed to the embers.

As he watches her, mesmerized by the finality of the movement, the smooth "swish" of silver through black, Duncan realizes what is really going on. Highever has burned, her life has burned, and she must move on or fall in the ashes.

"Here," Duncan takes the knife from Elissa's hand. Gingerly, gently even, unwinding her tight, white-knuckled fingers from the grip. He doesn't comment on the redness around eyes, a stark, almost unsettling contrast against the pallor of her skin. Instead he says, "You're butchering it, let me."

She doesn't fight him, she barely even looks at him. It twists Duncan's insides but he knows he has nothing to say, that there is nothing he _can_ say. Forgoing useless words, he tucks her cloak in tight around her neck—hair lost down in that heavy mail of hers would drive a body mad—and begins to cut.

When Duncan had first laid eyes on this new recruit, tall, broad-shouldered, and muscled thing that she is, he had thought her a man. That is not so very odd to him; Duncan has known many men who've been resplendent in silk gowns and women who've been most at home in hunting leathers. But when the round practice helm came off, what had really struck him about Elissa was her hair. Not many warriors, male or female favored waist-length hair that must be coiled and braided beneath their helms. Her hair, Duncan knows without words, was something all hers—a compromise between her womanhood and fighting spirit.

And now Highever is a charred carcass. Her life is blistered and may not mend. Elissa _cannot_ let herself crumble in the wastes. Those thick, midnight tresses, the gift of her mother's blood, are only a weight now, and for a journey such as this, one must pack carefully.

Duncan pretends, after he's evened her hair into as neat a bob as he can manage—which, is actually very neat—and is shaking the debris into the fire, that he doesn't see the tears trickling down her chin. He almost wishes that she would cry more. But after a few moments with her face pressed into the mabari's neck, Elissa's features are schooled to calm and she thanks him, proper as the teyrn's daughter she _used_ to be, and inquires if they might reach the Hinterlands by nightfall.


	4. Alistair: Envy

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, please don't sue me.

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><p>He doesn't care for her from the first mention that he gets from Duncan in one of his letters:<p>

_There are signs of great promise in Highever. A young warrior, I'm told that she wields a two handed blade as if it were made of straw. Hopefully this won't be hearsay._

His stomach stirs at the mention of this new recruit, though Alistair cannot say why. The second short letter he receives turns that rumble to a full on swell of jealousy:

_All I hoped for in our new recruit has proven true and more. There have been complications in the north, however. I will tell you the full story when I arrive in Ostagar. Inform the senior Wardens of this missive._

Childish though it may be, he is man enough to admit this, Alistair hates the thought of his mentor, his savior, finding exception in anyone else. He fears he will be on the fringes again. The Wardens won't send him away as Eamon had—Maker _could_ they?—but Duncan might take on a new protégé and that seems far worse.

Alistair's feelings do not improve upon meeting Highever's great Hope. Elissa, he discovers her name, is polite, smart, skilled, and direct.

And that is all that she is. Unsettling would be a generous description for her too-cool detachment. Generous is not what Alistair is, not with this. He finds her blunt rebuff of Ser Jory and Daveth as they vocalize their worries in the wilds to be callous. Even more so is the fear she just does not share with the rest of them. Not to say she is reckless, far from it. A careful tracker she never once abandons her wits and companions' backs to the bloodthirstiness of battle, though he _does _question how she interacts with the witch in the ruins.

There is no spark of terror in Elissa's eyes—Andraste's Grace, Alistair has never seen a blue so bright—in fact there is _nothing_ in her eyes. It is a void that scares Alistair more than the looming battle, more than Morrigan and her mother, more than his Darkspawn riddled dreams. What kind of creature can walk around hollow?

He writes her off for the Joining. Wardens cannot be vacant mounds of muscle and bone—that is what they defend the world from.

Given how life likes to bite him in the arse, Alistair shouldn't be surprised when Elissa the only one persevere through the Taint. Or to discover that he is a judgmental cur, when, as they watch over her unconscious form, Duncan relays just what the "complications" up north really were. Perhaps he also should not be surprised, after he spends the better part of that night, guiltily mopping the sweat from Elissa's nightmare fevered forehead wondering how on earth she manages to go on, that he'd get a chance to find out for himself.

Mostly, though, Alistair shouldn't be surprised when it's the so-called empty vessel of a woman who leads him through the wreckage Ostagar makes of his life.

Elissa is not empty, nor is he, and a few months down the line Alistair will discover what it is to be over-filled with purpose, if only for what her smile brings to his life.


	5. Sten: Duty

Disclaimer: Bioware owns, I do not.

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><p>Omitting the truth about when he was departing was in hindsight, Sten realized, a bit foolish. Actually, no it was <em>very<em> foolish. At least insofar as him thinking, even for a moment, Elissa wouldn't see through his vagaries. He isn't truly surprised when he finds her waiting with the hound at the docks in the pre-dawn chill.

She smiles while Ruff bounds toward him, eager in his affections as always. Secretly, Sten always believed that the Mabari was the truest reflection of his mistress' heart. In the public eye, Elissa is always calm, levelheaded, and cool, only those privileged enough know the overabundance of warmth she reigns in.

Sten will miss that more than anything else.

If he had any fears that this goodbye might go sour they abate when, from beneath the thick wool of her cloak comes an overlarge clay jar sealed with cork. This is passed to him without a word and he accepts it just as silently. He already has a feeling of what lies within but he pops the seal just to be sure.

Cinnamon, oat-berry, shortbread (with icing and without), and, his favorite, apple spice. A bounty of cookies.

"I had three more stowed in your cabin," she tells him when he finally lifts his eyes away from the gift. The way that her eyes glisten at the corners twists his belly but the steadiness of her smile eases him. "I'm not sure they'll last you all the way to Seheron but it's the best I could do on such short notice."

Sten is too Qunari to tell her everything that buzzes through his head in the few seconds that tick by after she's spoken. Even for one of his kind he is cool and detached. Dealing with humans…he's just all wrong.

He _should_ tell Elissa that their friendship is the greatest event of his life. That not a single day will pass where she won't be a part of his meditations. He wants to tell her that she has made him consider the impossible; that perhaps the Qun and the Bas will not have to make war again (at least outside of Tevinter). Most of all, though, he wishes that somehow he could tell her that, if he could, he would give up Seheron and her jungles, the familiar air of tea and incense, to remain at her side.

Sten can't say or do any of that, however, and he knows that Elissa knows this. She is _kadan_ to him, after all. Still, his offers what he can.

"You will be a fine queen to this land," he says resting a hand on her shoulder. "If there is hope for these fools, it will be with you."

She laughs, it is a soft sound tinged with uncertainty. A rare thing and Sten enjoys that she is easy enough to let him hear it; truly, Elissa's vulnerability is a privilege. "At least one of us thinks so. Just so long as they only ask me to help rebuild the army and not plan any balls, I've a chance of lasting a few years."

"Agreed. You're most useful with a sword and map."

Another laugh comes, braver than the first. "Thanks."

In the following silence that stretches out between them, punctuated by the background lull of the harbor, it hits Sten, really and truly, that this is it. He is leaving. He will not stand watch with Elissa ever again. They will never again spar together or push Bodahn's wagon out of the mud. The feeling of ease he's gotten used to, knowing that she's at his back on guard is henceforth a memory.

"Will you write?" Elissa's wiping her eyes on her sleeve and trying to be inconspicuous about it when he comes back to the moment. She doesn't really succeed, one of the drawbacks of enormous, magnetic eyes like hers.

"I will try." It's not a lie, he will. The part where he accomplishes the task is what Sten holds in doubt. His hand is still on her shoulder, it has not moved since he first laid. His grip, he knows, borders on painful but she has not shirked away. He squeezes just a little harder as he says, "_Kadanost, panahedan_." (1)

"_Meravas. Panahedan, Kadan._" (2)

The tongues of Basra are considered unworthy of Qunlat. Still, Sten cannot staunch the swell of pride that rises in his chest to hear her attempt, clumsy as it may be.

And that's all there is to say. Sten pulls his hand away and nods. Elissa returns the nod and he walks on to board his ship. He remains at the starboard side, watching the docks with one hand resting on Asala's hilt until the harbor, as well as Elissa, have disappeared.

**Translations**

(1) Peace, friend, goodbye.

(2) So shall it be. Goodbye, friend.


	6. Oren: Faith

Disclaimer: Bioware owns it, I don't.

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><p>Auntie will come. Nothing will convince Oren otherwise. Even as Mother trembles and the guards bar the door. Auntie will come, because that's what she does.<p>

When Oren fell from his pony the first time he rode, it was Auntie who came straight to him, brushing the tears back with her sleeve and assuring him that crying was perfectly all right as long as he got right back in the saddle. He trusted her then, trusted her big, calloused hands as they returned him to Dory's back. He trusted her to stay beside him until he was at ease and her words promising improvement would come if he continued to ride every day.

When he stole apple turnovers from the kitchens and ate himself to sickness, it was Auntie who took up for him when he was found. She lied for him, telling Nan she had swiped them for a lunchtime ride with Ser Gilmore and Lady Landra's son. Nan always forgives Auntie, you see. Auntie made him promise after everyone was gone and she was helping into a new shirt that he wouldn't do it ever again, that if he just asked very nicely Nan would never fail give him a treat. He promised and as always, Auntie was right.

Auntie will come, Oren knows this, even when the bar breaks, and the Bad Men rush in. There is no fear in him, as he watches the fighting, tucked behind Mother's skirts, Auntie will come and the Bad Men will pay.

Auntie gave him his first wooden sword and let him practice with her. Not once, no matter how many times an errant stray cracked her knuckles or side did she ever become cross with him. She endured the bruises and gently admonished his form.

She taught him the names of all the plants in Grandmother's garden and, more importantly, the best trees to climb in it. The best way to aim a slingshot, the hiding places that Mother and Grandmother would never think to look, how to make Aldous think he was paying attention when he droned, and every letter in the alphabet; all of these came from Auntie's patient tutelage. Auntie is the best teacher.

Auntie is as tall as a mountain and built twice as solid; when she carries him on her shoulders Oren is a king. Auntie always has time for piggy back rides and hide-and-seek because, as she puts it "that's what Aunties do."

Mother's crying doesn't bother Oren, her pleas barely register, even as she's jerked away and he watches the blade sink through her chest until it pops out her back. The sword flashing in front of his face, held in the fist of a Bad Man who looks away before bringing it down, doesn't mean anything, nor does the flash of pain before blackness. Auntie is coming and her sword is bigger, he's seen it and even touched it once, while she stood behind him, hands clasped over his.

In the moments between blackness and light, while he stands with Mother, staring at his own face and the big, red pool beneath his body, Auntie comes, dog and Grandmother in tow. He watches her as she makes her way to them, her big blade tearing through the Bad Men without mercy, armor gleaming red and silver. He knows every arc, every curse, every movement that she makes, she makes for him. For Mother too, a little, but mostly, they are for him. Because she promised once, "I'll always come for you," and Auntie doesn't break her word.

Grandmother drops to her knees once they're in the room. She weeps and brushes the hair back from his face, closes his eyelids and Mother's too. Ruff howls his grief. Auntie does not move; she stands there, in the doorway unmoving. Of everything that has happened, it is her face that frightens Oren because it is empty.

Auntie has a bright smile that can fill the great hall with sunshine at midnight and a laugh that shakes the room in the best way. Her eyes have all the warmth and color of a summer sky, just like Grandfathers—and, so Oren has been told, his own.

There is a new woman, almost it seems, standing in Auntie's skin now and she is empty.

Behind Mother and he, there is a Light. It beckons, promising warmth eternal if only they come to it. Oren goes, both because the Light's pull is magnetic and because Auntie cannot hear him when he calls her name.

"Don't worry, darling," Mother says, squeezing his hand. "You'll see them again."

Oren can smile at that because it's the truth, he can feel it in every inch of him. Auntie will always come and he can be a patient boy. It's what she would want.

With his final look back, however, Oren can only hope Auntie can be patient too. He wants to see her again but not before the stranger in her skin gets driven out.


End file.
